


Oh, Crowley

by sleepymccoy



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale/Crowley First Kiss (Good Omens), Crowley Hurts The Houseplants (Good Omens), First Kiss, Learning To Communicate, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, References to Canon, Sadness, Whump, a big ol fight, allusions to self harm, but this is like high emotion, but with a reesolved and happy ending, crying in the rain, i think, it is upsetting tho, look honestly im not totally sure what whump means, mainly the bandstand fight tbh, no actual self harm tho, self harm allegory, they're mean to each other but like theyre not enjoying it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:40:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27129377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepymccoy/pseuds/sleepymccoy
Summary: They've dined at the Ritz and celebrated not dying. But once they get back to the bookshop Aziraphale says something that sends them both into a tailspin, and they don't recover well. It leads into a big ol' fight, unfortunatelyI mainly wrote this as a way to explore Crowley actually hurting his plants. 'cause he doesn't hurt himself, he turns it onto them, so it's sort of structured to be a situation that puts him in helplessness and deep panic. I've  been told before that I'm a good angst writer, but i've never actually tried to write something sad before. it's always been accidental. This is intentional, so if you're someone who needs resolution for that kind of thing i recommend waiting until this has a completed tick. I promise i'll resolve it all well, but some of the early chapters end badly.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 74
Kudos: 240





	1. A Chance

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale sighed greatly. 

Crowley slowed and looked at him. What could have happened to bring on that much of a heavy, sad expression? It didn't make sense. 

They'd shared a lovely meal together, hours of it. Many glasses of celebratory champagne raised to increasingly specific toasts. To the world, to Tadfield, to that Young boy, to lucky incompetence, to you, to us. To this wonderful cake I'm eating. 

The walk back, too, had been cheerful. A bit more subdued, but happy. More chuckles than laughs, but chuckles were good. Crowley couldn't see why Aziraphale had sighed, why he looked so put upon, so defeated.

"What?" Crowley asked. 

Aziraphale smiled sadly and took a few steps. They were at the bookshop, Crowley had assumed he would be invited in but now these steps Aziraphale took indicated he was walking away, not encouraging company. Aziraphale went further.

Crowley followed, perhaps he could say the right thing and be invited in. He wasn't sure where he'd said the wrong thing. He hadn't even been speaking. 

They stood under the cover of the overhang, by the front door. The sky had been trying to rain for fifteen minutes now but Crowley had been holding it off, determined to not let it ruin their stroll home. He gave it up and the first few drops fell.

Aziraphale's smile remained, but lessened, almost souring. Crowley fretted quietly.

"I don't have a chance with you, do I?" Aziraphale asked. His eyes were wide. He stood a step above Crowley, closer to the door, protected from the few brave and errant drops by Crowley. Crowley's back grew wet for it.

Aziraphale seemed to look up at Crowley, somehow, despite standing taller than him.

Crowley's heart thumped. "What?" 

Sharp, cold rain drops hit the back of Crowley's neck but he barely noticed. Aziraphale's hand was rising, drawing closer and Crowley was frozen.

Aziraphale's fingertips brushed Crowley's cheek, then pressed hesitantly against his jaw. Aziraphale's thumb, soft but worked enough by book pages to have hints of use in its pad, touched Crowley's lower lip and dragged gently, shaking. 

Crowley stayed still. Aziraphale's thumb left his lip slowly, tracing a path down his chin to his neck. Aziraphale's hand rested nearly flat on the front of his neck for a moment, thumb across his Adam's apple, so lightly as to feel more like silk than a hand.

Then Aziraphale withdrew. 

"Angel," Crowley croaked, although he had no idea what to say, how to discuss anything any more, "are you- ?"

Regret flashed across Aziraphale's face, then settled into place there. His lips trembled in something more like sorrow, but that didn't stick around. The regret remained. "I apologise, dear boy," Aziraphale whispered. "A bit too much champagne, I think. Makes everything a little rose-hued, don't you find?"

Crowley stared. Aziraphale was shaking. It hadn't been cold long enough for it to be a shiver, he was just shaking. 

Aziraphale looked down, shuffled his feet, adjusted his cuffs, then turned to the door. "Let me know when next suits you for dinner." 

The door opened quickly, but closed gently, leaving Crowley alone in the rain. 

Crowley stood and stayed.

Then he stayed, still standing.

Then he really stayed. There was a note from the post office tucked under the welcome mat saying a delivery had been attempted and Mr. Fell would have to come by and pick it up himself before long. The note grew damp and frayed, and began to consider dissolving as the rain continued. Crowley looked worse than the note.

He had been touched. With intimacy. With, he had to admit, although the word was challenging, desire. Some desperation, perhaps? Or was that too far?

Day turned to night and Crowley fretted. The rain stopped and feeling returned to his fingers slowly. 

What chance did Aziraphale want with him? Colloquially, the language was clear. It implied romance. But Aziraphale wasn't one for colloquialisms. At least not current ones. So it could easily not be that. 

But was it a current colloquialism? Or an older one? Crowley didn't really know. 

No other meanings made themselves clear to Crowley and as the sun rose the possibility that Aziraphale had truly meant romance threatened to drive Crowley insane. 

So Crowley stood, standing, and stayed there.

Finally, he gave in. Another night had passed by then, and he'd heard music and mutterings from within the shop, and one moment when Aziraphale had taken a call and told the caller off which had made Crowley smile slowly to himself. But mostly he stood, feeling quite unsure about why he was here and what he was doing and what in the fuck was going on in general.

So he called Aziraphale. 

The phone rang. Crowley could hear the automated tone in his ear as well as the distant real ring in the shop. He smiled, hearing footsteps and a light bang of a book dropping before the phone line clicked.

"Hey," Crowley breathed.

"Crowley, hello."

What was he meant to say? Fuck, he should have thought about this. He had things to say. That whatever chance Aziraphale wanted with him, he would make it work. 

He probably wasn't going to say that. What about,  _ if I come over will you touch me like that again? _

That was still pretty forward.

"Um," Crowley said.

Aziraphale sniffed. "Are you okay?" 

"Aah," Crowley strangled. Shit, this was going badly already. "Yeah, what are- what're you doing?"

He had this wrong, he had to have this wrong. Aziraphale had been making some reference, some obvious thing that Crowley wasn't thinking about. He sounded so calm, so normal now. Two days was nothing for them, they hadn't seen each other for months, years, decades before. Crowley was getting in touch too soon, he was sure he was.

It had always been Crowley seeking Aziraphale out, though. So maybe this phone call wasn't too much a leap.

Or maybe… did Aziraphale even want him around? It had always been Crowley reaching out, not Aziraphale. Maybe he should have given Aziraphale a chance to get in touch first. Maybe that was that chance he'd been asking? An opportunity for control. 

_ I don't have a chance with you. _ That's what he'd said. Did he want Crowley to leave him be for once? 

"I've been re-shelving," Aziraphale said with pleasure. "Now I'm going to be kind and assume it was Adam, not you, who rearranged all my books, is that right?"

"What?"

"Well, that's a relief of sorts, it really is a mess."

God, he shouldn't be here. He just shouldn't. At least he'd called, he was feeling better about this coward's avoidance. What would he say to defend this? I stood here and listened to you walk around inside for two days, cold and uncomfortable beyond belief. Come outside and tell me it's okay that I stood here in the rain for you. Tell me it's not the most invasive, stupid thing-

"Anything interesting?" Crowley choked out, not really sure what he was asking about.

"Nothing obvious missing, although there are some older scrolls I'm beginning to grow concerned about. A few new novels that I may, sadly, have to part with. Need the shelf space, after all."

"Of course," Crowley agreed.

What did he have to do? He was so lost. Aziraphale was breathing, quiet and quick, he could hear the pattern of it crackle on the phone. Crowley wanted to be inside, where it was warm and light, where Aziraphale might touch him again. How could he get Aziraphale to touch him again? Had Aziraphale wanted to touch him then? Two days ago, had Crowley done something to make it happen, to force it? Fuck, he was sorry.

"What have you been doing?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley hummed in question, he wasn't following the topic with any success.

"These last two days," Aziraphale explained, "what have you gotten up to?"

Well, Crowley thought miserably, I've been here, sopping wet and desperate and outside your door like some miserable, degradable stalker. And I'm sorry for it.

"This and that," Crowley said instead, "you know, what you'd expect."

"I had expected you would sleep for a while, honestly," Aziraphale said.

"Yeah exactly, sleeping. Jus' woke up."

"I'm glad. That you slept, I mean. I hope it was refreshing."

It was calming to hear him talk. He sounded happy. He sounded a little impatient, but that was wonderful. Crowley would take care of him, if he was impatient then Crowley would get to the point.

Crowley leaned his head on the door, careful to be quiet and unheard. "What chance do you want with me?"

Aziraphale gasped and was quiet. Crowley waited.

"We don't need to talk about that, do we?" Aziraphale muttered.

"No, of course not," Crowley agreed. Shouldn't push the issue. It had been nice, a nice hint at things that may come far, far down the line. Or not that at all, maybe just a joke, just a passing moment meaning nothing. Not to be poked at. Or a warning. To be heard and obeyed, not questioned. How rude to question a warning given so generously. "No need. Barely- barely an interest, just seemed the polite thing to do. To say. Ask."

"Well," Aziraphale said, sounding horribly stiff and like he wasn't enjoying this at all, "I appreciate your dropping the matter."

Keep him on the phone, that's all that mattered now. "When did you want to get dinner?"

"Oh, whenever," Aziraphale said breezily. Crowley could imagine him, hands waving freely, uncaring and unbothered. It hurt a little to imagine that, in a way that Crowley chose not to examine. "Doesn't really matter. Would you like to get dinner?"

"If I want to?" Crowley repeated. Be careful, he heard the warning. Don't be too keen, don't be too forward now, you eager and shameless demon. Work for this for once. Let the angel come to you first.

"Do you want to?" Aziraphale breathed. 

"Who knows, really," Crowley lied. Nonchalance, he could play that.

"I see," Aziraphale said, his voice barely audible. He took a breath and spoke up. "Yes, I see, well, there's no need to hurry anything along."

"No rush at all," Crowley agreed, sounding very cool. He stood up straight and watched as a few drops of water fell from the wet patch left by his hair.

"Quite," Aziraphale continued. He stammered and sounded very unsure. "I- I had thought, Crowley, that our side might mean, well…" he trailed off.

"Yeah?"

"Oh, of course not. No, I quite understand."

The line went quiet again and Crowley floundered. He could imagine Aziraphale on the other side of the door, just meters away, eager to put the phone down and get back to his far more pleasant day. 

But Crowley's skin itched with uncertainty. It was too new, this chance thing, he'd never heard the like before. It sat wrong in him.

"What chance did you want?" Crowley asked. Then he regretted it and tried to apologise. "I'm still- I'm still caught on that, angel."

"Don't call me that," Aziraphale said quickly and quietly.

It was like being punched, and that punch took your insides, pureed them, and returned them with a second hit as he realised he'd heard Aziraphale correctly. 

"What?" Crowley gasped.

"I'm barely an angel," Aziraphale snapped, "it's like if I went around calling you a demonic beast."

"But you do."

"Well, I shan't any more."

Crowley gaped, staring at the door in disbelief. "I don't mean it like one of them, you know," he said, halting and uncertain, "just- just you are." He pinched his eyes closed and refused the ball of misery in his chest. Okay. No more angel. "Do you want to get dinner?"

"I won't impose on your time like that."

"It's not-"

"We'll bump into each other before long, Crowley," Aziraphale interrupted, "it's a small city."

Christ on a fuck, he was going to have to leave. That ball of misery strangled him again, but again he beat it down. "Big world," Crowley muttered.

Aziraphale was quiet. Then, "Yes," he agreed, the word hitting multiple octaves at once as his voice cracked into pieces. "Big world."

Aziraphale took a shaky breath.

Crowley took one too.

"Do you-" Crowley started, but he was cut short.

"Very good to hear from you, call anytime, bye now," Aziraphale said hastily, and the phone slammed down. 

Crowley listened to the dial tone dully.

A bang sounded from inside. Then another. Crowley absently swiped his thumb across his mobile, ending the call on his end, and stayed, listening closely. Because he should leave, he should, but he was too awful and too weak to do so.

He could hear footfalls, heavier than usual, coming close. He readied to dash, then Aziraphale spoke.

"You absolutely fool!" Aziraphale spat. Another bang. "Oh," Aziraphale said, loudly but without heat.

Then, with a great deal of heat, "Oh!" 

The blinds against the door's small window shuddered. Crowley began to ready himself to duck out of sight, not entirely sure he'd get away in time, but the door stayed closed. The curtains by the main windows shifted too, almost rattling against the glass. Light seeped through the cracks, a pale glow that caught every fleck of dust and creaked the wood. 

There was a crackle inside, not fire, more like ice about to break. Then the light withdrew, the curtains stilled, and a sob sounded so clearly and so miserably that all thought left Crowley and he was overwhelmed.

Mindless purpose filled him. He grabbed the door handle and entered, not thinking about why he shouldn't, simply knowing he'd upset Aziraphale somehow. He'd really upset him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi!


	2. Overstep

"Ang-" Bugger. He corrected himself. "Aziraphale."

Aziraphale turned and looked at him, hand flying to his neck where he'd pulled his bow-tie off. He stared like Crowley was a wild animal, dangerous and unwelcome. Maybe he was. 

"You seemed upset," Crowley whispered. He'd stalled in the doorway, now uncomfortable with where he was and how Aziraphale looked at him. He slid his foot along the ground, beginning to retreat.

"No I didn't," Aziraphale whispered. He was lying, it was dead obvious. He had tells of all kinds and Crowley knew them all, but right now he didn't need to know Aziraphale because the beautiful angel's eyes were filled with tears. There was not a person on Earth who would look at him and think him not upset. 

"I was outside, you seemed upset," Crowley insisted, like that would make being outside okay. Like that would make entering without permission less of a trespass. "Are you okay?" He took another half step back towards the door. How had he gotten so far into the shop? "Should I just go?"

Aziraphale scratched his throat. A button that was usually done at his neck was torn and missing, leaving more skin visible than Crowley had seen in a few decades. "You look horrible," Aziraphale said. His voice cracked again and he winced. 

Crowley grimaced. He did look horrible, he looked like he'd stood outside for two days in the rain. "I should go, I didn't mean- I-"

"Why were you outside?"

Crowley's good and practised imagination swiftly gave out on him. "Forgot my hat," he muttered.

Aziraphale took a step forward, a small, hesitant one. "You stood outside to call me?" He whispered. Then realisation dawned on his face and Crowley's heart threatened to choke him and run away with the last of his hope, never to return. 

But, "You didn't want to see me," Aziraphale said.

Briefly, Crowley was glad Aziraphale hadn't figured out the truth. Then he realised how much worse this was, but by then Aziraphale had stopped looking at the floor with his eyes welling up again and had pulled his face into a stony mask.

"I'm sorry, you're free to go," Aziraphale invited, gesturing at the open door.

"I am," Crowley agreed, thoroughly upset. 

"I'm really fine, it was very gallant of you to check."

"Gallant," Crowley agreed. He didn't move.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale asked. He joined his hands over his stomach and fiddled with his thumb. "Do you want to leave?"

"I don't know. Do you want me to leave?"

Aziraphale nodded, a flash of misery leaving Crowley quite sure he was misunderstanding something. "Yes, please, enjoy the world," Aziraphale said.

Crowley was missing something. There was something here unspoken, he was sure of it. 

What  _ fucking _ chance?

"Why'd you shout?" Crowley asked.

Aziraphale rolled his head, glaring off at a wall for a moment. His eyes still shined. Crowley wondered how his were fairing behind his glasses.

"I think you're exaggerating," Aziraphale said.

"I'm not."

"You should go."

"You want me to go," Crowley said, not asking but confirming.

Aziraphale's foot shifted. "Clearly," he said certainly.

Maybe this was what Crowley hadn't understood. The prospect of it terrified him. "Do you want me to come back?" He asked.

Aziraphale's hands dropped to his sides. "What? Ever?" 

Crowley took another step back, just feet from the door now. He shoved his hands in his pockets and tried to remember what it felt like to be casual, or at least how it looked. "Well, you know, end of the world. Free at last. Maybe I shouldn't come back. Job well done, Arrangement over. What's the point?"

Aziraphale stared at him and Crowley just wasn't sure.

"Is that what you want?" Aziraphale asked. His lip quivered. His eyes teared up afresh, actually threatening to spill over now. 

Crowley took a punt, although the risk felt nearly insurmountable. "No," he whispered. Tight pockets, these pants. It didn't feel casual. Had being casual always felt this awful?

Aziraphale did not cry, but it seemed a near thing. 

"Then I suppose I'll see you again," Aziraphale said carefully.

Crowley leaned forward at the hips, not stepping close but drawing in, standing like a broken stick. "Not if you don't want to," he whispered angrily across the room. "Angel, come on!"

He winced, he'd called Aziraphale angel. Aziraphale had asked him not to. Aziraphale hated that term. What a shit thing to do, he wasn't paying attention. He needed to pay attention now.

Aziraphale crossed his arms and frowned and Crowley had to agree he deserved it. He opened his mouth to apologise, but Aziraphale's scolding threw him off.

"Stop pestering me, you're always like this!"

Crowley faltered and stood straight again. "Like what?"

Aziraphale took a step closer, then threw his arms done and pivoted to the side, stalking off angrily. "You're on me, nagging me to break rules," he said, his tone quickly approaching a shout. He hit the back of one hand into the palm of his other, punctuating his words as he walked around the side of the store. "Be smarter, be braver, catch up, but I can't, I can't do it, Crowley!"

"You can," Crowely said instinctively because in fact Aziraphale could and had done so. He'd saved the world, smartly, bravely, and so wonderfully.

"I cannot! I cannot deal with this any more, and I shall not! I am what I am, regardless of what anyone else wants!"

He was shouting now, Aziraphale was shouting. Crowley swallowed, then swallowed again as his heart tried very hard to think, because his brain seemed incapable. Aziraphale was shouting at Crowley, and Crowley was upset by it, and that was about all he really knew at the moment.

"Are we breaking up right now?" Crowley asked. His voice wasn't his own, it was high pitched and strangled. "How is that happening?"

Aziraphale stood under his skylight, the curled S of the compass above his head as he crossed his arms again. "No, we can't-"

"Is this how it's always been?" Crowley asked. "'cause fuck, Aziraphale, I thought it was upstairs keeping you coy, I thought you wanted me around!" The words spilled, at last he was at least saying something. Even if that something was more honest than he ideally would say. "I've been fucking fighting to be by your side this whole blessed time, you didn't want me? What, you didn't even like me?"

Aziraphale's frown went from angry to sad with no discernable change. In fact it was so tonal that Crowley wondered if he wasn't just projecting a hope. Maybe the angel was still furious and Crowley's radar for his mood was fucked, always had been fucked. 

"You have?" Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley nodded. "Right," he agreed with himself. Not what he'd thought. He took another step back.

Aziraphale lowered his arm and approached. He didn't look mad any more, but what the fuck did Crowley know? He'd misunderstood everything from the start and for so long. Here was another righteous angel, eager to be rid of a demon. 

Crowley stepped back, his heel reaching the small up-step of the doorway.

"I thought it was just work for you. I mean, I knew it was more, but I thought, well…" Aziraphale trailed off, going quiet as Crowley tried to leave.

Crowley raised a hand and shut his eyes. He felt blindly for the door frame and found it, gripping tight to keep himself steady. Or to farewell this beautiful building. Or simply so he would be touching something when Aziraphale finally snapped and wiped Crowley from existence.

"Look, so you know," Crowley said with difficulty, "so we're clear, for once, I wouldn't've been on you like that if I'd thought you weren't enjoying it. I misunderstood."

"You didn't, Crowley-"

Crowley left, eyes still closed. He knew this entrance intimately, he'd waited on it for centuries, he didn't need to see the steps to avoid tripping on the worn centre. He darted down and opened his eyes once he was a few steps down the street. 

"Crowley!" Aziraphale called.

Tears fell. Crowley swiped at them, more hitting himself than wiping them away. 

He couldn't move, he heard Aziraphale catching up to him, then stopping just short and breathing.

"Crowley," Aziraphale said again, more softly. Crowley's heart hit him in the chest, leaping in hope that Crowley had to tamper down manually. He couldn't trust shit now.

"This whole time?" Crowley asked. He turned, twisting his spine until he had to actually change his stance to face Aziraphale. "We can finally speak freely and this is what you have to say?"

Aziraphale's hands fluttered to his own mouth, then to the buttons on his vest.

"Please wait," Aziraphale said.

Crowley stilled, he would wait. He didn't want to, but if Aziraphale wanted to discuss it formally, finally, well. He would wait.

Long seconds passed. A businessman shouldered past Crowley, muttering under his breath. Crowley ignored him.

"How are we breaking up?" Crowley asked, outraged and betrayed to hear a whimper in his voice.

"We're not, dear, we can't," Aziraphale said. Crowley refused to read his tone, to take meaning from it, so it was simply said.

But it was said sadly, Crowley had to admit that. He stepped away lest he read more hope than there was in Aziraphale's tone. It had been proven already that he didn't know Aziraphale well enough to read him, he must take it all at face value or be a fool.

Regardless, Crowley spoke. "I know, we're not together in the first place, but shit, Aziraphale, I thought-"

"Don't leave, just give me a moment, please," Aziraphale interrupted. He caught up with Crowley, who'd only managed to back away half a meter, and caught his hand.

Crowley jerked away half-heartedly and only pulled his hand partially out of Aziraphale's grasp. Aziraphale's hold was light, more communication than trap.

So Crowley waited, as long as he could. But he boiled, he fretted and panicked and couldn't wait very long at all.

"What chance did you mean?" He asked quietly.

Aziraphale grimaced. "Oh, it was a slip of the tongue, a foolish thing to say, do forget it."

Okay. He would forget it, then. And he would leave. He just needed to say goodbye.

"You touched me," Crowley whispered, those last drips of hope in the words. He didn't mention that Aziraphale was touching him now, this could just be a long farewell handshake. A very long one.

Aziraphale's hand tightened. Goodbye, Crowley thought.

"I regret that," Aziraphale said. 

Goodbye, Crowley thought quite forcefully.

The only good thing Crowley had left was that he respected Aziraphale. That was a harmless emotion, a professional one born of years of working in the same area. He could be respectful now, because he could not be adoring, he could not be sacrificing. 

Goodbye, he shouted at himself. Goodbye, now.

So he raised Aziraphale's hand, pressed his lips to his ring, and croaked a word that, before it was mangled by his misery, was a farewell.

Then he let go, fought the instinct to drop to his knees and beg, and left. 

He heard, as he staggered away, Aziraphale sigh and say, "Not again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry, guys. they broke up a bit there.


	3. The Sapling

Crowley walked, rather badly, for about a block before remembering he was a demon. Without a care to being observed he clicked his fingers and landed himself outside his flat. A scooter swiped past him, the high pitched horn sounding angrily as he startled and leapt back off the kerb with a hiss. 

His car was here. Aziraphale had said it would be, and there it was. Crowley took half a step towards the black beauty then stopped. He wasn't in a mood to drive at the moment, it was too free and exhilarating, it was not for him. He stretched his fingers out, patted the metal, stroked the bonnet, then left for his apartment. 

The lobby was unwelcoming. Crowley felt himself starting to stretch a bit thin, his bones began to feel the struggle he'd held in his muscles and sinew until now. But that was okay, he only had the elevator and the short walk to his door left. 

The elevator was a damned challenge. The mirrored walls were unforgiving and malicious. Crowley flinched as he walked in, diverting his gaze to the ground. He whacked his floor button, easy to find by touch as he was the top floor, and glared at the ground desperately hoping he could keep his attention off the walls.

By the time the elevator arrived he was staring across the space at himself, furiously studying his face for answers. There were none. Instead he watched as his lip trembled and the tendon in his jaw flinched and danced with anxiety. 

Unwanted. That's what he was. Unwelcome and refused. 

He entered his flat crying, but did not acknowledge the tears. There was no one here to see him. God wasn't watching. Aziraphale wouldn't visit. No demon would set foot in this tomb. So he cried and pretended he wasn't. 

The plants shivered as he passed, tempting him to stop and enter the room. He tried to look at them but his sight was blurry. He could feel their fear and confusion in the air, it tasted familiar, it was his. 

Aziraphale had told him to leave. Leave London, leave England. Go out and enjoy the world, but don't be here. Unwelcome here. 

Crowley grabbed a small plant, a new and young one, and held it close to his face. It went still and he snarled, furious with it. It wouldn't survive a move. An intercontinental move, going as far away as he could. It wouldn't survive. It was too delicate. 

"Nothing wrong with you," Crowley hissed. "Just not quite up to scratch." 

He hesitated, then he threw the plant to the ground. The terracotta broke, shattering the tense silence cruelly. Crowley watched the plant as it's leaves settled, laying flat against the floor, and it's roots shook in their new exposed state. 

Crowley fell to the floor and sat cross legged before the mess of dirt, watching as the leaves wilted and the roots dried in the air. Night fell around him without his notice, he could see just as well in the dark and his focus was on watching the sapling slowly die. 

His phone rang. It scared him, the sound was shrill and incongruous. It was inappropriately loud and lit up red, a colour Crowley hadn't seen for a day. He'd not looked away from the green plant on the grey floor. He glanced at the screen, then focused on it entirely, wincing as the sound continued, and saw the bookshop's number. 

Ought to answer, really. Rude not to.

He took a breath, sobbed once, then swiped to pick up.

The line was quiet, but crackled in an old way that was so achingly familiar. 

"Hullo," Crowley said.

"Oh, hello," Aziraphale's voice rushed in. "I've reached you. I've been calling and calling the flat, you've not left already, have you?"

Crowley lay down, he couldn't face the sapling now. He looked up at the towering roof, large, dark leaves hanging over him. What to say? Either he had left or he hadn't. What was more believable?

"Nah," Crowley said. "Not yet. Packing. Must've been out when you rang."

He hadn't heard his phone ringing. Mustn't've been paying enough attention. 

"You're packing," Aziraphale said. "Where to? I will arrange to visit."

"You don't have to."

"I wouldn't-" Aziraphale paused. He continued more formally, the words stale with preparation. "Forgive me," he breathed, "if I'm being difficult. I wouldn't offer if I didn't want to, but you needn't tell me where if you don't desire company."

Crowley closed his eyes. Aziraphale would visit when Crowley left. It was a honey trap, he knew that, but it was tempting nonetheless. He would be shunned in London, but if he left he would see Aziraphale again. 

It should have been a hard choice, but the promise of Aziraphale happy to see him was overwhelming. 

"Greece, I'm thinking. Good sun, there," Crowley said, making it up on the spot. "I'll give you an address when I have one."

"Lovely."

Crowley didn't want to hang up. But he didn't know what to say. He stared at the roof and felt his body melt into the ground with defeat.

"Did you want anything else?" Crowley asked.

"Oh." Aziraphale sounded stressed or uncomfortable. Crowley had hoped he wouldn't ever hear that tone again, but apparently he could cause it. So he listened and regretted.

"You see," Aziraphale said, "I don't believe I quite expressed myself properly when we last spoke. Could we meet, perhaps?"

Crowley balled his hand into a fist and pressed it to his forehead. He felt lost and drowning and fake. "Is that a trick?" he groaned.

"What?"

"Angel, I'm so fucking-" Crowley stopped. He took a breath. 

"Sorry," Crowley offered quickly. "Aziraphale, I meant."

Aziraphale was being quiet. It felt like an angry quiet to Crowley. 

"It's a habit," Crowley mumbled, "I'll lose it."

"You may call me an angel if you must," Aziraphale said sadly.

"No. No, I don't must. Why would I must."

"It is always so on your mind, isn't it?"

"It's just a habit, Aziraphale," Crowley insisted, although he knew it was a habit he would hate to break. He'd do it for Aziraphale. "Just a word. I don't mean anything by it."

"Don't you?"

Crowley nodded, his throat was tight and he didn't want to speak. But phones were an audible medium, which he remembered a moment later, so speak he did. "Point taken. I'll see you in Greece."

The line creaked and Aziraphale's breath was louder.

"I'm glad we're friends," Aziraphale murmured.

Crowley shivered on the floor. He wanted, oh how he wanted. "Are you?" he whispered.

"Oh," Aziraphale sighed. The phone line creaked like it wanted something else to be discussed. "When do you leave?" 

Crowley shut his eyes. "Couple days I guess."

"Could I come by?"

"If you feel like it."

Aziraphale paused. "Would it be okay with you?"

"I don't mind."

"I'm going to visit, then."

"Okay."

"Okay."

Aziraphale hung up. Crowley let out a shuddering breath and opened his eyes.

He had to get changed. 

He sat up, the movement sudden and sore in his muscles. He should shower, sleep, and dress. Or dress then sleep, who knew when Aziraphale was coming, he didn't want to be in his pajamas. So, dress then sleep. 

He looked at the sapling and his blood curdled. 

Fucking Greece, huh. He'd said it on a whim. Wasn't the worst country he might've picked, but it would be a change of pace. Wasn't the economy fucked up? Perhaps that had sorted itself out, it seemed like an old piece of news. 

He poked the sapling, pressing his finger against the leaf. It pinned to the ground, already sagged from its night and day of dying, but moved now with the pressure from Crowley's hand. 

Crowley thought. If he trusted himself more he'd've said Aziraphale had sounded upset, almost distressed. But he didn't. Aziraphale, it turned out, was quite the liar. Crowley had been convinced he was wanted by someone, liked and enjoyed, his company desirable. 

Wrong.

And Crowley wasn't someone who was led to believe that easily. So Aziraphale must have been convincing, in ways even now Crowley couldn't put his finger on. He couldn't believe he'd never thought it, never suspected it. It was so very angelic to trick in this way.

He honestly hadn't thought Aziraphale was that kind of angel. He wasn't ready to accept it, Aziraphale was so good.

Perhaps Crowley had done something to earn it. Some early insult he had forgotten but that had soured their relationship from the start. A detail that landed squarely on Crowley's shoulders and left Aziraphale blameless. 

That fit better in Crowley's estimations of them both.

Crowley turned his finger and pressed his nail to the sapling's leaf. It bent for a moment, then broke in a tear as Crowley's nail scraped the ground. Crowley rolled his finger back, pushing hard and pulverising centimetres of the leaf under the pad of his finger. 

He stood, shakily, and left the silent, still room. 

-

Crowley stood in the shower, nearly burned by the water, and didn't cry. He stared ahead blankly, sorting through what came next. 

Time passed meaninglessly. The hot water did not run out. 

Crowley spoke, his voice hoarse and unkind. 

"Get your shit together," he told the steam. Or himself. The steam ignored him.

Crowley flicked the tap off and clicked his fingers, instantly drying. He left the room and clicked again, clothes forming on his body as he walked. 

His saunter was back, the shakiness from earlier gone. His glasses were on and his hair clean of any residual gunk from standing in the rain for two days. 

He returned to the plant room, picked the sapling off the ground and threw it against the wall. He screamed, quite briefly. The sapling hit the ground, flinched, then lay still.

Crowley spun on his heel, looking very calm, and went to bed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's a short chapter, but I'm close to finishing the next one so i'll see you soon!!


	4. A Damned Gimmick

Crowley was not asleep.

He stared at the roof and regretted that he wasn't asleep until the doorbell rang. Perhaps five hours had passed. He had closed his eyes and imagined things so nice they might have been dreams, but he was pretty sure he hadn't slept. 

He sighed, sat up, and jogged to the door. 

The doorbell rang a second time as he arrived, so he took a moment to settle his breath, then, trying very hard not to think, he opened the door. 

There was Aziraphale, looking as lovely as ever. Delectable, this one was. Crowley wanted so much from him, so much that it had become too much and was now refused. 

Crowley's heart sank as he waved Aziraphale inside.

Aziraphale entered and let himself be led down the hall to the throne room. The throne room, you see, had a table, and Crowley very much wanted something between them. 

Aziraphale stood uncomfortably in the entrance to the room. Behind him the hallway lengthened into darkness, the grey walls only interrupted by the leaves of one plant that poked into the way. 

"If not for the threat of you leaving I could have dithered for months," Aziraphale said, "so there's something in that, I hope."

"What's in that?" Crowley asked.

Aziraphale shrugged. "Something."

Crowley thought about it. He could find good in that, but he could more easily see bad. That Aziraphale wanted it all done with before he left. The knife already in the wound, just needing one last fatal twist. Crowley's gut clenched in fear. Something, indeed.

Crowley took the throne seat, perhaps it would stop him from begging as he feared he might. 

If ever there were a time to be cool, it was now. Prove that he didn't want too much, that he could meet Aziraphale wherever he wanted to be met. He would bend and break himself to be what Aziraphale wanted here.

But in a cool, nonchalant way. 

Aziraphale shifted and pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolding it loudly.

"You're kidding," Crowley condescended.

Aziraphale glanced up, nervous to every inch of him, and grimaced. He was still a moment. The paper shook. Then, "I-" he said, faltering and choked on the word. 

He grimaced again, in apology, and turned to his paper. 

"I don't want you to leave England," Aziraphale whispered, reading from the page he'd brought. "I don't want you to leave London. I don't- I don't even like it when you leave my shop."

Crowley stared, feeling much like his body had melded with the throne and was no longer something that would move at his command. He couldn't believe it. He couldn't fucking believe- Aziraphale, this master liar, had brought notes to better his manipulation.

Crowley's eyes stung with hurt.

"Oh," Aziraphale sighed at the page. He wouldn't meet Crowley's eyes, not since he'd first arrived and looked away quickly. "Oh, it seemed much easier to say when I wrote it."

Crowley scoffed, or did his best to do so. The sound didn't manifest quite right and his throat spasmed silently afterwards for a few seconds. 

"You may call me angel," Aziraphale continued from his sheet. "You may call me devil if it brings you happiness.

"I hoped our side might mean that we see each other more, and more honestly." Aziraphale continued, his words speeding up, occasionally blurring into each other. "And I had imagined that honesty would be kindness, but even if it's not, even if you wish to rage against me, I would like to do lunch occasionally."

Crowley believed him, quite entirely. He was, however, a bit too smart to let that belief take hold. So he raised his chin and looked as unimpressed as he could. But his body hurt for it, he felt aflame.

"I think of you as a friend," Aziraphale whispered. The sheet in his hands shook and his voice seemed on the verge of breaking. "I don't want anything to change, except the obvious, of course."

"What's the obvious?" Crowley asked.

"Well," Aziraphale said, still looking at the paper, "you know."

Crowley raised his eyebrows, thinking about how unimpressed he definitely was. "I don't. And I don't believe you for a second, so you know. You're a fucking good liar."

Aziraphale looked up at that, meeting his eyes easily despite his glasses. He looked winded, his chest heaving all at once. 

"I am?" Aziraphale gasped.

"Obviously," Crowley said doubtfully. "What's your- what d'you think's going to change?" 

Aziraphale gripped his paper tightly, it crinkled between his fingers, sounding like it wanted to tear. "I shan't have to report to head office," he said weakly, "nor shall you. We needn't hide our nearness in public, not that we did very well at that." 

He stopped. 

Crowley glared at him.

"That's about it," Aziraphale said.

"But the rest of it?" Crowley said, leaning forwards in his chair. "The condescension? The avoiding? That all stays?"

Aziraphale's eyes were wide and glassy. "I hope not."

"Be honest," Crowley spat, "you said you wanted honesty."

"I-'

"I can take it, angel," Crowley said. He heard it the moment he said it, the rudeness of it. The unwanted work that spoke of the difference between them. Their distance. So he leant into the insult. "Principality." It felt sick in his mouth, but he'd said it. 

Aziraphale gasped like he'd been struck.

Crowley's vision swam, not with tears but with a fog of heated shame. He swallowed but it stuck in his throat, choking him mercilessly. 

He stared at Aziraphale, studied him like a machine he was trying to reverse engineer. But it was simpler than his attention wanted it to be. Aziraphale looked at his feet and held the paper and was hurt.

Crowley had hurt him. Crowley had been trying to. 

He'd never done that before. 

It sat dreadfully in him.

"I can hear everything you have to say," Crowley said, softening his voice in apology. The words wavered emotionally, but carried through the room. "Every bit of me you don't want, you can tell me now."

His throat cracked, so he rocked himself back against the throne, his head hitting the back hard. Pain sparked and his vision swam, but he could speak.

"I'll understand," Crowley hissed, "and I'll still come when you call."

"You're loyal, I give you that," Aziraphale said wetly. 

Aziraphale dropped the paper and raised his hand to his face. He stood across the room, meek and shivering, hands cupped against his forehead to hide his eyes as he looked down. As if he wanted to see but wouldn't let himself. 

Crowley felt simply awful. He knew now how tightly wound around the angel's finger he was, but he couldn't bring himself to mind. He had been mean and he endeavoured to fix it if he could. 

So he threw away his control and gave it to Aziraphale.

"I'd do anything for you," Crowley whispered. 

Aziraphale made a noise, almost a moan but more of a creak. It sounded broken and sad and it morphed into words as he said, far more loudly and uncontrolled that any had been, "Would you please be a bit kinder, then?"

Crowley stood up. One of Aziraphale's hands lowered to press flat against his eyes, the other still raised as if to shade himself. 

"Aziraphale, I'm sor-"

"No, no, don't!" Aziraphale shouted. He sounded halfway to insane. His hands flew outwards, palms facing Crowley as if to prove he were unarmed, or to protect himself. His eyes shone madly, averted so Crowley couldn't meet his gaze. "You can say whatever you want."

"I'm sorry," Crowley repeated. 

"Don't let me stop you talking," Aziraphale shouted at the floor.

Crowley stopped talking. Just for a moment. 

"Are you okay?" Crowley asked.

Aziraphale shuffled forward, moving oddly. Crowley couldn't figure it out for a moment, this uncomfortable dance he was suddenly doing, then he saw that Aziraphale had moved to stand on the piece of paper and was shifting it with his feet.

"Useless-" Aziraphale spat. He shifted, the movement almost ridiculous if it weren't so sad, and the paper tore in half. 

The room was quiet again. It was too mean, too serious and untrusting a room for Crowley to ask again. 

But he couldn't lie, not to Aziraphale, and not to himself. He gave up, quite entirely, and prepared himself to beg. 

First, though;

"You've been lying to me," Crowley said.

Aziraphale rubbed his eyes exhaustedly. "Almost certainly, my dear," he said, his voice monotone with defeat. "When do you mean?"

"You asked me to leave. You also want me to stay," Crowley said. "Which is it?"

Aziraphale shook his head. "I won't order you," he said. 

Crowley closed his eyes and with a moment of sick amusement he farewelled his pride. "I want to do what you ask," he said slowly. "Which is it?"

Aziraphale raised his eyes, meeting his gaze. Exhausted, tired to his soul. Crowley felt much the same. 

"Stay," Aziraphale said. 

"Okay," Crowley agreed. He tried not to let it get to him, the boundless joy of it. "That was my preference," he added, as nonchalantly as possible. 

Aziraphale's eyebrows pinched in sadly. 

"Should I call you angel?" Crowley asked.

Aziraphale clasped his hands together before him. His fingers fiddled tightly. "What's your preference?" he asked. 

Crowley almost smiled. That was more like it. Tricky, not mean. He took a difficult breath. "I want to call you angel," he said, very purposefully. 

"Why?" Aziraphale breathed. 

"Because-" Crowley paused, catching his words. He leaned his hip against the table and thought about why. It was because he couldn't just say I love you. But he couldn't say that, not a chance. No matter how straightforward they were (this was so rare) managing to be.

"I don't want to answer that," Crowley whispered.

"Is it to be mean?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley wished he could be surprised at that. But it was a fair question, wasn't it. "No," he breathed.

Aziraphale angled his head curiously. The madness had gone from his eyes. He was present. "Neither of us like angels very much, my dear," he said. 

Crowley stepped forward, then changed his mind and sat back and up on the table edge. His legs dangled lazily beneath him. Aziraphale was only a meter away now, not so insurmountable. 

The throne had stopped him begging, but he'd left that behind minutes ago. 

Crowley shook his head. "You call me dear," he said, "I call you angel." He shrugged. "Same thing." 

Aziraphale was quiet for some time. Crowley watched Aziraphale's feet, but he didn't move much.

Crowley had to be patient, he wasn't good at it but talking quickly had led to multiple fights between them. 

Despite his efforts, he lasted barely more than a minute. 

"I'm losing my marbles here, Aziraphale, can you speak?" he muttered.

"Call me angel," Aziraphale said. Nay, instructed. 

"N- now, or- ?" Crowley asked.

"Now, try it," Aziraphale ordered.

"Angel," Crowley said. It didn't feel quite right, said in its own and under duress, so he did again. "Angel, are you okay?"

Aziraphale nodded once. "You can call me angel. Not-" he paused, his lips pursed. "Not Principality," he muttered. 

Regret strangled Crowley's throat, then shame warmed him through and through. It was mighty uncomfortable. "I was trying to be cruel with that," Crowley said. "I'm sorry."

"I've done much the same to you," Aziraphale said, "it is forgiven."

Crowley tipped his head to the side in doubt, but did not fight it. He'd continue to make it up to Aziraphale. 

"We're friends, aren't we?" Aziraphale asked. 

Crowley sighed. "Well, I feel like I've been pulverized today, so we can't be very good at it."

"I thought you wanted to leave," Aziraphale said earnestly. 

Crowley waved his hand vaguely. "Was just… giving you space. I'm always on you, you know." He remembered what Aziraphale had said and winced. "Pushing you."

"I like it, Crowley," Aziraphale whispered. He stepped forward and pressed his hand to the table by Crowley's side. When he withdrew, stepping away again to further than before, he left behind a dulled key. 

"What's that," Crowley breathed. 

"It's my key to the shop," Aziraphale said simply, his voice tight. "I had a copy cut on my way here for myself. That's the original."

Crowley didn't follow. "Why's it on the table?"

"It's for you." 

Crowley looked away from the key and met Aziraphale's eyes. 

"Crowley," Aziraphale said seriously, "I came here fully prepared to beg. Would that help?"

Crowley felt hollow. "I'm doing everything I can to stop myself from begging," he whispered.

"Please," Aziraphale said, "stay." 

"Please let me stay," Crowley said. 

They stared at each other until Aziraphale's eyes were too wet to not cry and he turned away. When he looked back his sleeve was damp and his eyes recovered.

"Okay," Aziraphale said matter-of-factly. "Will you take the key?"

"Really?" Crowley asked.

"Yes, it's not a damned gimmick, take the key!" Aziraphale snapped. 

Crowley smiled. It was a small smile, but it still felt foreign on his face. It had been too long since those muscles were engaged. He slid the key into his pocket. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god i love them


	5. Crushed

Crowley was ready for Aziraphale to leave. Not that he wanted Aziraphale to go, not really, but more that what he wanted next was too inappropriate and it would be far better for both of them if Aziraphale left before Crowley snapped. 

He wanted- he  _ wanted _ to kneel and cry and kiss Aziraphale's hips and apologise for ever implying he didn't love every second he spent by Aziraphale's side. But he also wanted to retain the scraps of friendship they'd managed to salvage after this fuck up of a week, and that sort of too-much-honesty wouldn't do that.

So he wanted Aziraphale to leave. Leave and let Crowley have a brief breakdown in the privacy of his miserable apartment, then Crowley could crawl back to the bookshop tomorrow and try again. 

And, Aziraphale was leaving. So Crowley really ought to be happier about it. But Aziraphale was looking a bit shaky, a bit like he could use some help. Crowley just wasn't in a state to offer it. If he offered to help, if he took Aziraphale's arm and led him down the hall he wasn't sure he'd be able to let go once they got to the door. 

Instead, Crowley trailed after him feeling like he was doing something wrong.

"Will I see you soon?" Aziraphale asked.

"Yes," Crowley said quickly. He could promise that much, although he still struggled to believe he'd been allowed it. He'd worked so hard to accept that he couldn't, this new truth was struggling. "Yes, I'll be by tomorrow? For lunch?"

"That would be grand," Aziraphale said. He reached the arched doorway where the plants poked through and slowed, glancing through the door. "You're welcome as early as you'd-" he paused, frowning as he looked into the room.

"Oh," Crowley realised blandly. "Don't-"

Aziraphale looked at him sharply. "What's- ?"

"Nothing," Crowley lied.

Aziraphale's eyes shifted, going hard and doubtful. He entered the room and Crowley swore silently.

"Oh," Aziraphale sighed from out of sight. Crowley winced hard, then spun and followed him into the room. "Oh, Crowley, what happened?"

Black dirt still speckled the floor, almost unnoticeable against the dark grey tile. The red terracotta, broken into its dozen pieces, was more stark. And the small, pale green sapling that had fallen to the base of the wall was too obvious. Crowley couldn't look directly at it. 

Aziraphale, however, could and was. He was bending over, reaching out to the wrecked plant.

"Leave it," Crowley growled. 

Aziraphale ignored him. He curled one hand on the ground next to it and began gently rolling and prodding it to land in his hand. "Did you step on it?"

"Leave it, was a mistake."

"There's no mistake, dear, it's been cut," Aziraphale said. He turned towards Crowley but looked at the plant, raising it to study it closer. Crowley itched in discomfort. "Why would you-"

"Stop it, Aziraphale," Crowley snapped.

"I shall take care of it," Aziraphale said confidently.

Crowley's neck hurt, he strained to the side to relax it but it didn't recover. "No-"

"Now, let's see the damage," Aziraphale murmured. He wasn't being cavalier, more's the shame. No, he sounded entirely serious and somber. Like he knew it mattered. "Oh, you poor, sweet-"

Crowley saw an opening and mindlessly took it. He could stop this, this awful, vulnerable, painful moment. So as Aziraphale tipped his hand to better see under the crushed leaf, Crowley launched across the room. 

"Fucking stop," Crowley shouted. He reached out to smack Aziraphale's hand, to knock the plant to the ground again.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale cried out. He raised his hand out of the way, and turned to put his other arm between Crowley and the plant. "Don't you-"

Crowley scrambled at Aziraphale's back, reaching over his shoulder. He had longer limbs, surely, surely he could reach. He could feel himself cracking, his lungs threatening to scream from the stress of it. But Aziraphale stood with his arms open wide, elbow of one pressed to Crowley's chest and the other aloft and far away with the plant held safe. 

"Stop looking, don't look at me," Crowley choked out as he strained after the plant.

Aziraphale slowly turned his gaze from the plant to Crowley, and Crowley was relieved. He was sure he didn't look pretty, desperate and angry, but he knew he had been worse as he'd hurt the plant. Aziraphale would see more in that than he would in Crowley now. 

Crowley could brush the inside of Aziraphale's elbow with his fingers, but he was nowhere near the sapling. He schooled his face slightly, not calming down, just focusing, and pressed against Aziraphale's arm relentlessly as he tried.

"Careful, please," Aziraphale muttered. He shifted so the bone of his elbow wasn't burying into Crowley's chest, instead the side of his arm held him painlessly at bay.

"It's not fucking for you," Crowley gasped.

"I won't give you this plant, you'll harm it more and it doesn't deserve that," Aziraphale said gently.

Crowley gave up. He took Aziraphale's arm, the one close to Crowley, and held on. Almost like a hug. His legs threatened to buckle in defeat and embarrassment. "Just- cut it out," he whispered.

"You said, 'Don't look at me'," Aziraphale said.

Crowley let go. He leaned against the wall, the back of his head hitting and sparking in pain again. He shut his eyes and tried to lie.

"What d'you mean?" Crowley asked.

"Crowley, have you hurt yourself?"

Crowley sighed and sank to the floor. Not very voluntarily, but managing to do it with some grace just before his legs truly gave him up. 

"Will you just give me the blasted plant," Crowley sighed.

He heard movement, small enough that he couldn't place it. Then fingers touched his palm, opening his hand, and flesh pressed into him. 

Crowley opened his eyes and watched as Aziraphale carefully tipped his hand so the sapling fell gently into Crowley's.

"If you injure it you will upset me," Aziraphale whispered. 

Crowley stared at the ruined sapling, miserable. It had only ever had three leaves. The biggest, the second one, was crushed and pulpy, a cut clean through the main vein near the stem. Roots were bisected all over the place, shrivelled and dying. The leaves all had dried edges, the first leaf worst of all. It looked beyond help, more fucked and worthless than anything Crowley had seen before.

But he held it with careful reverence so that he wouldn't upset Aziraphale.

"If you love the plant so bloody much…" Crowley complained, not sure where he was going with his point. 

"Are you hurt?" Aziraphale asked. 

Crowley looked up and met Aziraphale's eyes. He was kneeling before Crowley's cross-legged form, his dirt-stained hands resting palm-up on his pants. 

"No," Crowley said. 

Aziraphale's eyebrows pinched in sadly. "You're sure?"

"Of course I'm blessing sure, angel," Crowley snapped. Then he remembered the angel debacle, he wasn't to say that any more. "Sorry, Aziraphale," he adjusted. His fingers curled in on the plant, not crushing it but preparing too. He needed to do better.

"You can call me angel, remember?" Aziraphale said.

Crowley fingers froze. 

"That's right," he breathed. He was starting to get lost. He was confused and felt too much like he wasn't alone and couldn't trust that. He needed to be alone, to feel abandoned and unneeded before he could sort through what he still had and didn't. 

The idea that he still had Aziraphale was nearly enough to make him cry on the spot. 

He very carefully uncurled his fingers. 

"Take care of the plant, please, Crowley," Aziraphale said shakily.

"It's dead," Crowley said. He could hear the hoarseness in his voice, it was too honest, too scared. He couldn't do a thing about it, though. "It was too young to take that."

"You can save it. Just try."

He couldn't. But, "Sure," he said. 

Crowley's eyes raised slowly, his gaze dragging up Aziraphale's kneeling form. His hands were shaking. Aziraphale's, that is, although Crowley's were too. Aziraphale's hands were clutched into his pant legs, and shaking. 

And his eyes were wet. Both their eyes were wet, but Aziraphale's so obviously. He was panting, too, his breath hitting Crowley's face, his lips. 

Crowley stared, realising somewhat too slowly that perhaps Aziraphale wasn't doing so well either.

"I'd better leave," Aziraphale muttered. 

"Okay," Crowley agreed, although he wasn't entirely sure that was the best thing. He itched to be alone, but he also felt a deep need, a gaping yearn to reach across the small distance between them and offer some support. 

Crowley didn't move. 

"Don't- oh," Aziraphale gasped. He stood. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

Crowley's neck craned to watch him. He towered over Crowley, lit from behind by the skylight and glowing. 

Crowley smiled at the sight. Here was an angel that wouldn't hurt him.

"Yes," Crowley agreed with a breath.

"Until then," Aziraphale said shortly, and he was gone. 

The room was bright and empty. Then the door sounded and Crowley was alone. He closed his eyes.

Tears fell. He ignored them.

He thought about it. Just beginning, prodding at the ideas. He could stay. He was staying. Staying in London with permission to see Aziraphale as he had. 

It hurt, how happy he was. 

The key to the shop was burning in his pocket, but he couldn't take that on just yet. 

First things first, he had a task. A directive given by one he loved. 

Crowley opened his eyes and shuffled along the floor, staying on his knees. He reached the base of one of his larger plants and plunged his hand into the dirt, collecting all he could fit in one cupped palm. 

With his other pinky he rounded a small hole and slid the sapling into place so it's roots were covered.

He'd need to find a pot, next. He didn't really keep them, but he was sure he could come up with-

There was a knock at the door.

Crowley stood and went to the hallway, carefully balancing the sapling in his hand.

"Fuck off," he called out to the door, then turned the other way and made for the kitchen.

"It's me!"

That was Aziraphale. Crowley stopped. 

His heart sped up. His skin felt wrong and clammy. His hair was tight. 

What had gone wrong? 

"Coming," Crowley called. His voice sounded unlike him, too scared. 

He made for the door, quickly but reluctantly. He cleared his throat and opened it, inviting his doom.

Aziraphale was wrecked. It had not been more than two minutes, likely only the one. How had Aziraphale fallen apart like this?

His clothes were in place, but rumpled. His face just… tired. Exhausted. Hair sticking to his forehead, bags under his eyes, a twitch in his cheek. He looked sad and defeated. 

"What's wrong?" Crowley breathed.

"On second thought," Aziraphale said, his voice pitched uncomfortably high, "can I have the plant?" He raised a hand expectantly.

"What?"

"I can take care of it, I promise," Aziraphale said. "I was a gardener all those years."

Crowley stared at him, his heart sinking. "You don't trust me?" he asked at a whisper.

"No, I just-" Aziraphale started quickly, then stopped. His hand lowered. "I want to help."

"You don't want it in this state," Crowley promised. Aziraphale began to shake his head, but Crowley spoke over him. "I'll re-pot it, get started. Bring it to you tomorrow, it's yours then."

"Swear to me," Aziraphale muttered, "I'll see you again?"

Crowley smiled. It felt tight on his face but like it belonged there.

"I can't leave," Crowley said.

Aziraphale laughed quietly, the tone of it hollow but not forced. "I wouldn't let you. Visit you constantly, make a right nuisance of myself.'

"Good. Good, angel. I want you around."

"Oh," Aziraphale sighed.

"I-"

"Until tomorrow, then," Aziraphale interrupted.

Crowley nodded. Tomorrow was better. 

They exchanged a last smile. Crowley waited for the elevator to ding its arrival before he closed the door.


	6. A Note

Crowley walked down the hallway slowly, balancing the injured plant in his hand with care. He passed through the throne room to his kitchenette, designed to make coffee and mulled wine and little else. The room was small and dimly lit to make up for the white marble counter-tops.

A quick rummage through a cupboard and he pulled out a small cup, a little larger than the pile of dirt the sapling sat in. He transferred it gently and patted it into place. 

The sapling dropped hopelessly, the stem bent at a bad angle and the largest leaf horribly mangled. Propping it up would help, Crowley thought maudlinly. Wouldn't do much, but it might help. The edges of the leaves were dried and crispy from its long night in the air. 

Crowley opened a drawer and found toothpicks. He'd never bought toothpicks, they must've come with the apartment. A lucky thing. 

It took him a good two minutes to poke the toothpicks into the soil and rest the sapling against them in a way that wouldn't strain the plant at all. 

He looked at the absurd effort and felt a strong desire to throw it against a wall again. He repressed the desire, instead filling a champagne flute with water and carefully dropping some onto the dirt. He would do so every hour, carefully hydrating the plant back to life. 

Maybe.

It was unlikely to work. 

Crowley wanted to crush the plant. So he left, refusing to succumb to the violence again. He wouldn't upset Aziraphale. 

He wandered jerkily into the throne room and looked around for something to do, something distracting. His eyes landed on two pieces of paper that lay on the ground, stark against the dark tiles. Torn down the middle with a clean footprint on the front of one. Aziraphale's footprint. 

Crowley remembered the notes Aziraphale had read off, and knelt without a second thought.

The two pieces fit together perfectly along the tear, so none was missing. Crowley sat on the ground and read.

The font was tidy and hand written. He had received letters from Aziraphale before and was used to a more swirly presentation, but this was simple. 

It was a list, bullet pointed with thin, uneven dots.

  * I don't want you to leave England. 
  * I don't want you to leave London.
  * I don't want you to leave the bookshop.
  * You may call me angel.
  * You may call me devil if it brings you happiness.
  * I hoped our side might mean that we see each other more, and more honestly.
  * I had imagined that honesty would be kindness, but even if it's not, even if you wish to rage against me, I would like to do lunch occasionally.
  * I think of you as a friend. 
  * I don't want anything to change, except the obvious.
  * I don't want to be secret about knowing you.
  * I don't want to be secret about caring for you.
  * I want to tell you everything I have always thought and never said.
  * You have never pushed me to discomfort.
  * You have been an inspiration and I am honoured by the history of your interest in involvement with me.
  * I hope I am good enough for you. I cannot change much, but if it is within my ability I will endeavour to make you proud.
  * We could not have been breaking up. 
  * I'm sorry I let it get out of hand.
  * I really don't want you to leave.



Crowley read the list a few times over, stood, watered the sapling again, set an alarm, and went to bed.

If he cried into his pillow, well, it was unlikely anyone would ever know.

-

Crowley's sleep was interrupted. Every hour his alarm sounded and he dragged himself horribly across the apartment's cold tiles to let a few droplets of water fall on the sapling.

Due to either his dedication or the respite water brought, the sapling did not worsen overnight. It did not get better either. 

Come morning Crowley walked the block to a gardening shop he'd kept in business for a few years and picked up some essentials. He spent an hour drinking coffee and layering various moisture beads, compost, nutritional dirts, potting mix, and mulch to give this sapling a go of it.

It looked comically small in the pot. 

Crowley read the note again and thought regretfully about what he'd said to Aziraphale lately.

He decided, on his third coffee, that he believed the note. It simplified things to believe it. If he were wrong and this note was a lie, he didn't think he'd regret deciding to believe in it.

Although it would feel foolish. A thrice burned fool. 

But he believed. And as such, he knew he wouldn't leave. Not England, not London, barely the bookshop. 

Crowley's finger traced the line that mattered to him most.  _ I don't want to be secret about caring for you. _

If Crowley had to put a word to how he felt about Aziraphale, it would be love. A lonely love, one sided and persistent. But the word was easy to choose. Love.

Care was a good word. Care was better than Crowley had realistically hoped for most of his years. 

And here it was, written. Sworn. A word chosen without known reciprocation. 

As midday approached Crowley knew he would find a way to express the same back. Crowley remembered when he cared for Aziraphale, before he had loved him, and it hurt to care alone. He wouldn't leave Aziraphale alone in this. 

They would be friends. Who cared for each other. And wanted the other's company. Friends who were kind. Who visited each other freely. 

The key in his pocket called his attention again. He ignored it.

-

Crowley stood outside the bookshop warily, two torn pieces of paper in one hand, and a miserable looking plant in a large terracotta pot in the other.

He'd driven here. He was still tempering down his smile from the exhilaration of having his perfect car returned when the door to the book shop opened across the street. Crowley tilted his head curiously and smiled as Aziraphale stepped out. 

Aziraphale made no move to approach further, but met his eyes across the road and watched. 

Oh, Crowley realised. Aziraphale was worried. Because Aziraphale cared.

Crowley jogged across the road to him. 

"Hi."

"Hello."

Crowley shoved the large pot into Aziraphale's arms. "I don't want it anymore," he said. 

Aziraphale looked at the pot then back at Crowley before he finally smiled. 

"Come in, dear boy," he said, stepping into the shop. 

Crowley only hesitated for a moment before following him. 

There was dust kicked up in the air, and massive piles of books stacked perfectly on the ground in front of mostly empty shelves. Aziraphale was reorganising. He was reorganising chaotically.  


"Needs half sun," Crowley said as Aziraphale carried the plant further into the store. 

"I have just the spot!"

Crowley waited uncomfortably by the door as Aziraphale set the plant wherever he meant. He'd brought the key Aziraphale had given him in case he was asked to return it. He had no intention of using it himself. It felt too large in his pocket.

But he was in the shop with the door shut behind him, and the dust was spiralling peacefully above his head. It was hard to worry. He stepped further inside, scanning for a seat that wasn't holding dozens of books. 

There were none available. The observation made him chuckle. 

Aziraphale returned. Crowley had circled the room and stood behind a couch full of scrolls of parchment. 

Crowley held out his hand, the torn paper he'd brought in his grip. 

"You left your letter," he said stiffly.

Aziraphale frowned. "What's that?"

Crowley shook the paper, eager to have it taken from him. "Your- your note. You left it. Here."

Aziraphale took them. "Oh," he said quietly. He began to go red, the colour creeping up his neck as he met Crowley's eyes.

"I read it," Crowley admitted quickly.

Aziraphale looked down. "Of course you did, it was in your house," he muttered.

"Apartment," Crowley corrected automatically, then winced for doing so. He should get to the point. The _ I care for you too  _ bit. That was important here.

Aziraphale looked up at him. He was bright red now, and the note was twitching in his hands. "I'm glad the plant's okay," he said. 

Crowley nodded. 

Aziraphale sighed and frowned. 

"I stayed," Crowley blurted out. Aziraphale's eyebrows raised in surprise. "When I called you," Crowley explained. 

"Pardon?"

"You- you asked me for a chance," Crowley said, leaning on the couch back with one hand and waving his other pointlessly. "Then shut the door, and I was confused. So I stayed, I stayed."

Aziraphale looked at him. Crowley looked back.

"I stayed," Crowley repeated.

"You did," Aziraphale said uncertainly.

"Until I called you," Crowley hurried, explaining himself as much as he could. It occurred to him that he was explaining too much, but hey. Shit happens. This was something he felt Aziraphale didn't understand, couldn't understand with how little he knew. But he ought to understand, so he explained. "I didn't call from the step to avoid coming in, I called because I hadn't left yet and it felt inappropriate. It- it was inappropriate, I'm sorry."

"That was two days, Crowley," Aziraphale said gently.

"I was thinking. I didn't understand. Still don't, truth be told."

Aziraphale paused with his mouth slightly open. "Well," he said, closing it firmly.

"Should I not have said?" Crowley asked. He leaned forward, his hip pressing into the couch. "Shit, I thought- you seemed embarrassed by the note, I thought it might even the playing field a bit."

"No, no, that's-" Aziraphale said while Crowley spoke. He sighed into the silence once Crowley finished, relief in his breath. "Well, that's quite a bit to hear."

"Right."

Aziraphale held the note up against his chest. "But it's a welcome thought."

"Really?" Crowley asked, feeling more than a little touched. 

"Sort of like a guard dog."

Crowley frowned and studied Aziraphale. He saw a twitch in his eyebrow, a curve of his mouth and recognised a tease. 

"Don't demean me," Crowley complained. 

Aziraphale smiled and turned to a nearby lamp. "Sorry, dear," he said, the smile thick in his voice, closer to a laugh. "I didn't mean it like that."

He touched the tip of the bulb in the lamp and pulled a small string of fire from it. The bulb caught happily and held aloft the flame.

Crowley watched, confused, until Aziraphale calmly placed the paper in the fire.

"What are you- stop that," Crowley said, striding around the couch to him. 

Aziraphale lifted the paper. It hadn't caught yet, but the edges blackened and continued to settle and shrivel in the air for a moment. Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, the picture of innocence. "I don't wish to read it back over," he said. 

Crowley tilted his head sadly. "Let me respond to it at least."

Aziraphale paused, the note still held safely. "Can you remember it?"

Crowley leaned forward, resisting on the little table between them. The fire warmed him as he stretched over it. "It's etched in me," he whispered.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "That's a bit dramatic. But, if it's etched in you then I shall burn the original and you can refer to your etchings." 

He returns the note to the fire. It caught alright and began to glow as a fragile ember.

"Would you rather I shut up and go back to normal?" Crowley asked.

"No, I'd like to move forwards," Aziraphale said quickly and very properly, almost formally. "To normal. So, speak your mind, I guess."

Aziraphale raised the note, most of it had burnt away, and shook it sharply before the fire reached his fingers. A sliver of a corner of paper was left. The fire went out.

Aziraphale met Crowley's eyes with a raised chin, as if ready for a challenge. His jaw was tight, strained closed.

"I think I leave you too often," Crowley said. "If you're amenable, we could spend some more time together."

Aziraphale blinked once, then his jaw relaxed.

"That would be lovely," Aziraphale breathed.

Crowley smiled. "I have never lied to you."

Aziraphale swallowed and smiled, although his smile didn't reach his eyes yet. "The Hell Hound?" he asked cheerfully. It was a false cheer, all tight and forced.

Crowley grinned regardless. "Get over it, it worked out," he snapped with exaggerated annoyance. "And that was omission at worst. And I volunteered it eventually, didn't I?"

"Very well, but I'm not impressed," Aziraphale said airily. He walked to the arm chain and began clearing space, lifting enormous piles of books with ease and delicacy. 

Crowley watched him work for a moment. Once he'd cleared the armchair Crowley spoke.

"The idea of actually being honest scares the unholy shit out of me, angel."

It was intense to call him angel and know his meaning was understood. It sent a spark of worry through him in a way it hadn't since he'd first used the endearment however many centuries ago.

Aziraphale met his eyes and smiled. A light blush either remained or reformed on his cheeks. "Perhaps kind is enough, then," he said. 

"Kind I can do," Crowley agreed. "Honest, I'll try and figure it out. But I'll hear yours. If you want to tell me things, I'll hear it."

Aziraphale's jaw set hard again. He raised his chin. "Thank you."

"I'm upsetting you," Crowley observed, because it was obvious.

"No, no," Aziraphale said. He pulled a bottle of wine out from the depths of the arm chairs cushions. "But are you nearly done?"

"Yes," Crowley said too eagerly. Aziraphale picked up a glass from the table and poured himself a generous serving of red wine. "I can be done, I'll shut up."

Aziraphale drank the glass in one and refilled it to a more sensible amount. 

"One for me?" Crowley asked.

Aziraphale ignored him. "Say anything else you wanted to, dear boy," he said, a touch too loudly.

"Is there anything you want to say?"

Aziraphale drank. "A great deal, but not today. I'll find a time."

Crowley approached slowly, fully aware of how guardedly Aziraphale was staring at him. He cleared a few scrolls from the table and sat near the empty armchair. 

Aziraphale finished his glass and sank into the armchair heavily. He leaned forward and rested his chin in his hand, meeting Crowley eyes with less fear.

He could always meet Crowley's eyes, these glasses were useless against Aziraphale. 

"You inspire me, too," Crowley said softly. "To be braver, to question, to see good in the world. The streets are so dim and sad without you. You flatter me and improve my life just by walking beside me. I care about you. I care about you so much."

Aziraphale's head tilted to the side sadly. His voice cracked as he said, "Crowley-"

Crowley grabbed the bottle by him and poured it into Aziraphale's empty glass. "Have some more wine. I'm going to stop now, I'd really better."

"I- my dear-"

"Did you even get me a glass?" Crowley asked, looking around. "Rude bastard."

"Of course I did, here," Aziraphale muttered. He leaned past Crowley and pulled a glass from behind him. He waited as Crowley poured wine into it.

Aziraphale passed him his glass with a gentle mutter of, "Dearest."

Crowley warmed at the endearment, one he hadn't heard before. "Thanks."

Aziraphale sat back and watched his glass as he swirled the wine. 

"That was quite a thing to say," Aziraphale said.

"It wasn't, I've called you a bastard before. You've liked it, too."

Aziraphale looked up sharply. "You know how you, a demon, swap-"

"Here we go-" Crowley complained, rolling his eyes.

"Swap good and bad words around?"

"What?'

"You use  _ bless _ like it's a curse, and get mighty offended at the very lovely and true complement of  _ nice _ ."

Crowley grinned and drank. "Screw you."

"Is  _ bastard _ not one of those?" Aziraphale asked sweetly. 

Crowley shook his head. "I'm lost. Is bastard what?"

"A secret demon compliment? In the way that  _ holy _ is a secret demon insult."

"No!" Crowley shouted widely. "It means you're a smarmy, bastardly scoundrel," he said. He faux cheersed Aziraphale. "And a son of a bitch to boot!"

"How dare you!" Aziraphale exclaimed with a grin.

"Am I wrong?" Crowley challenged.

Aziraphale began to gesticulate wildly, little comprehensible meaning in his swinging arm. "Well you're a- a contemptible louse of a creature! An absolute joke who hasn't an iota of- of-"

"Go on," Crowley teased.

"Brain! Just no brain or self-reflective thought in you," Aziraphale said triumphantly. He drank some wine. "Not that I've seen," he added.

"I've got brain comin' out me ears, angel," Crowley bragged.

Aziraphale waggled a finger at him. "That's precisely the problem, you just let it shlop all over the carpet rather than put it to work."

Crowley laughed. "Bastard."

"Reprobate," Aziraphale shot back. 

Crowley continued to chuckle as he poured himself another glass. 

"If I may say, Crowley," Aziraphale said, laughter still in his tone but softened.

"Sure."

Aziraphale took a breath, then met his eyes squarely. "It is an absolute pleasure to have you here."

Crowley smiled. Aziraphale relaxed and smiled back. The moment hung for a few seconds, warm and calm, then Crowley leaned forward to top up Aziraphale's glass.

"Chickens don't need brains to live," Crowley said.

"What absolute rubbish."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about that, like, full month delay i just threw around! my city's down to zero covid cases so we're allowed out and about and turns out socialising and drinking really saps my energy! but this fic is nearly done now! one last chapter, and it's all written but for the last few sentances, so that'll be soon  
> love you all, i'll try and respond to comments but rest assured i read every one no matter what <3


	7. Apricot Tarts

Two nights passed peacefully. The first night found an angel and a demon together in a bookshop, pointedly ignoring the time so they could sit in each other's company. 

The second night, after a day at the museum, Crowley went home. He cleaned the broken pot and scattered dirt and felt a bit embarrassed about the whole affair. It had been a nice day at the museum, and their farewell had had a comfortable air of  _ see you soon.  _

So Crowley slept. When he awoke mid morning he considered his options over a coffee and decided to give it all a good college try. 

A drive by a bakery later and Crowley was at the bookshop again, barely sixteen hours since he'd left. 

Aziraphale's surprise was clear on his face. 

"Oh, my dear-"

"I can find stuff to do today if you're busy, but I thought, well, apricot tart?" Crowley raised the paper bag as offering.

Oh," Aziraphale said again. He opened the door fully. "Certainly, dear, that sounds just the ticket."

The bookshop was tidier. He and Aziraphale had done some work on the reorganising effort, which Aziraphale seemed to have lost the steam for. Everything was going back where Crowley remembered it living before. But, hey, if Aziraphale wanted to dust the place up and lose a few novels, Crowley wasn't going to stop him. Whatever cheered him up after their last few days sounded good.

Aziraphale set the tart up on a plate (which sat atop three nearly identical atlases), and turned a couple of lamps on as he pottered about. He didn't speak.

"I was thinking about mucking around with that chunnel thing this week," Crowley said loudly in the quiet shop. "You know, let a badger loose and stop the trains to France or something. Is it France or Belgium they join up? D'you have plans?"

Aziraphale faced him with a smile. "I'm hardly going to join in on that ridiculous venture."

"No, no, I meant anything for yourself. If it's sounding good enough maybe you'll thwart my whole thing and I'll join in." 

Aziraphale sat and poked at the tart with a fork. The air began to thicken. Crowley wondered if he were in fact coming on too strong after all.

"I just mean I can be swayed," Crowley corrected. "No solid plans here, but I'm keen on the chunnel idea. Got a badger lined up and all."

Crowley glanced out at the window for a look at the street, but the curtains were drawn. 

Aziraphale ate. 

"Didn't mean to just drop in," Crowley muttered, very awkwardly. He took a step towards the door.

"I misspoke," Aziraphale said.

Crowley stopped heading for the door. "When? Just now?"

"No, I wasn't speaking now."

Crowley had to agree. He'd noticed that, actually. He hadn't liked it much as an atmosphere.

"I mean earlier," Aziraphale muttered. He twirled the fork slowly, rotating it in the air. "Recently. If I wasn't misspeaking I was misunderstanding and saying the wrong thing anyway."

Crowley cottoned on. Aziraphale had been thinking. Mulling. And now had something to say. 

Crowley stood straight and tried to look unthreatening. He'd watched a seminar on active listening once but now couldn't remember if you were meant to make eye contact or not. 

"Right," Crowley said, glancing between Aziraphale and anything else somewhat erratically. 

Aziraphale looked up and met his eyes. "You're very patient to be here."

Crowley took a step towards him, shaking his head. "That's not it," he whispered.

Aziraphale out the fork down. "I'm slow, Crowley. I get lost in it."

He looked at his plate, dropping the eye contact as Crowley took another step towards him.

"I say what I don't mean," Aziraphale continued with a calm practice. "When we fight, I lose track of everything and it's all happening too fast, I can't keep up with it. I say things I might've meant millennia ago, because it's what comes to mind in the moment."

Crowley felt the words hit him like a punch. 

He'd been too fast. Again. 

The air thinned and he felt himself breathing quicker as he swayed in realisation.

"What's wrong?" Aziraphale asked sharply.

Crowley's thoughts were racing. He put a hand to his forehead to try and catch them, to slow himself down enough to grasp what he'd done wrong. 

If he was too fast for himself of course Aziraphale resented it. 

No. No, no. It wasn't that. 

He remembered Aziraphale's face those few days ago when he'd chased Crowley into the street. He'd begged him to wait, to stand quietly for a minute while Aziraphale caught up and said his piece. And Crowley hadn't let him. Crowley had been impatient and turned and left. 

After Aziraphale has  _ asked _ , even, he'd-

"Oh," Crowley sighed.

Aziraphale hadn't wanted to say no. Crowley had just been asking wrong. How could he have been so insensitive?

Aziraphale stood up and approached him, his hands raised in surrender. "Crowley, what have I said now? I can't have meant it, no."

"I didn't- I hadn't thought-" Crowley stammered. "You're right, but I'm not trying to rush-"

"What?" Aziraphale asked weakly.

Crowley stepped back. "I should give you some space, let it cool down."

"But you said you wouldn't leave!"

Crowley stopped. A breeze slid into the shop from the gap at the base of the door. It swirled the dust magnificently. 

He pushed, that's all he did and he did it wrongly and unfairly. He asked too much. And when it wasn't too much it was too fast. Sometimes it was both. 

But he had sworn not to leave. If he stayed he would be unfair. If he left, the same. 

It was all a bit too hard.

"I don't know what to do," Crowley whimpered.

Aziraphale wrung his hands. "I'm trying to keep up with you," he said.

"No," Crowley breathed.

"I am, I'm trying, and I'm getting closer."

"Don't try, don't do anything."

Aziraphale stepped to him, drawing near. Crowley let him. "But I'm slow, I need your-"

"You're not, you're brilliant, angel-"

"I need your patience," Aziraphale whispered. He was feet away. Inches now. Less. "I need you to be patient."

Crowley nodded, caught in the moment beyond a hope of knowing the course. "Anything you want, of course," he promised. "Patience, you've got it."

Aziraphale closed the last of the distance, stepping into Crowley's space. He tipped his head to Crowley's shoulder, his temple pressing against Crowley's cheek. 

Crowley was frozen, arms half raised on the way to an embrace but unable to complete the movement. 

"I need you," Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley's heart thudded in panic or excitement, he couldn't tell. But, "You've got me," he whispered back quickly.

He willed one hand to go to Aziraphale, closing his fingers around the angel's upper arm gently. Before he could do anything else, make any move towards calming Aziraphale down, everything changed. 

Aziraphale's hands were gripped tight to Crowley's shirt. Their chest pressed together. He could hear Aziraphale's breath, the detail of it. 

Aziraphale turned his head and pressed his lips to Crowley's mouth.

It was quiet. 

They kissed, frozen in it, for another moment. 

Aziraphale broke the kiss with a shaky gasp. Crowley didn't move. Crowley hadn't moved. He hasn't even kissed Aziraphale back yet. He wasn't sure he could do anything at all right now.

Aziraphale pulled back. He let go of Crowley's shirt. 

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale breathed.

Crowley's fingers uncurled from Aziraphale's arm. Nothing occurred to him, absolutely no thoughts at all. He couldn't even look at Aziraphale he was so gobsmacked. His eyes stared off into the distance, occasionally catching on a fleck of falling dust. 

He felt a wave of emotion threaten him, and he gasped, keeping it at bay a second longer. This moment, this was everything. He couldn't believe, but he lived in it, he felt it.

Aziraphale's breaths picked up speed. He took a few steps back, banging into a shelf awkwardly.

Crowley winced at the sound and saw Aziraphale at last. The sight was worrying.

"Oh, lord, oh," Aziraphale muttered.

Crowley managed to focus on Aziraphale properly. He was standing by the bookshelf, one hand to his head, and shaking. 

Crowley's lips tingled. How did this fit, then?

This  _ kiss _ . 

"You-" Crowley said gently.

Aziraphale dropped his hand and stepped closer. "Crowley, please, I'm sorry for that," he interrupted.

Crowley blinked. "What?" he breathed.

"Forgive me," Aziraphale said. He reached Crowley, his hands were waving frantically. "I'll make it up to you."

Crowley tried to catch Aziraphale's hands, but he couldn't keep up. They kept flitting away as he reached for them.

"Azira- Az- Az-"

"Forgive me, oh, lord," Aziraphale gasped. 

Aziraphale was gone. It took Crowley a beat to find him, he'd moved so quickly. 

Aziraphale had gone to his knees as if in worship. Or prayer. Like he was begging. 

Crowley's arms fell wide in his shock. 

"Wha- ?"

"Crowley," Aziraphale said heavily, "please forgive me, it's just too much, it's too much."

Crowley rushed. This was blasphemous. And miserable. And wrong. Aziraphale was so upset. Crowley dropped to a crouch in front of Aziraphale so he wouldn't be alone in his genuflection. "Hey, hey, okay, forgiven," Crowley croaked. 

Aziraphale was stricken, his conflict clear. Crowley felt awful for him, this panic, whatever the source. He couldn't think Crowley displeased, but if it would help he would agree to forgive. 

"What are you- ? Please calm down. Forgiven, totally forgiven."

"I'm not sure you understand," Aziraphale gasped.

"I'm completely sure I don't." 

Crowley reached out gingerly and placed a hand on Aziraphale's shoulder. 

It was knocked away immediately as Aziraphale stood and hurried back to the bookshelf, leaving Crowley alone and crouched on the floor. 

"Oh, don't touch me right now-" Aziraphale said as he went. He hid his face in his hands. "Hateful-"

Crowley gut dropped. "Right," he whispered. He should've known better, they didn't touch. And a demon's touch would be hateful, especially in response to such a trespass as a kiss- "No, hang on-" Crowley said as he realised, "you kissed me."

Aziraphale looked horrified. 

Crowley stood. "You did, I was there," Crowley insisted, for he had been there, and Aziraphale had kissed him. This wasn't Crowley's fault. He had done nothing wrong. 

The knowledge was rather freeing. 

"Just now," Crowley said, almost giddy over it. "Why? Is that what you're so sorry for?"

Aziraphale's feet shuffled uncertainly. "Of course!" he said. 

Crowley cocked his head curiously. 

"Of course I'm sorry," Aziraphale whispered loudly. "We're friends, Crowley, or something like that and you've had what you- what you want for so long."

"I haven't-" Crowley said, but Aziraphale talked over him.

"Maybe not perfectly," he said loudly, his hands raised to insist he would speak, "I admit, but you've been your own for- for- since- years! Thousands of them!"

"I haven't had what I want," Crowley said. 

Aziraphale's shoulders fell. "I don't mean to be rude, my dear boy, but you had carved out a sort of freedom for yourself. Hell would check in but not watch. Direct but not order. You have far more practice at this than I."

"But I want-"

"There's these news rules now. Between us-"

"There's no rules," Crowley interrupted.

"Lines of etiquette," Aziraphale amended, the panic of his tone bending slightly to exasperation. "I overstepped one, I believe."

"But you didn't!" Crowley said with a laugh. Aziraphale flinched, so Crowley stopped laughing. "You didn't, angel."

"You'll forgive me if I-" Aziraphale said disjointedly. He stopped and sighed, then continued, his voice small. "I don't know what to do. I am quite adrift. All my shackles are dropped and I seem to be tearing about the place trying to ruin it all."

"Angel-"

"Please forget it."

"Aziraphale-"

"Really, Crowley, I can't believe I-"

"Aziraphale, you've got to listen to me!"

Aziraphale stopped. He bit his lip and straightened his shoulders. "Go on, then," he muttered.

Crowley shrugged lightly. "Let's try that again."

"My apology?" 

"The kiss, angel."

Aziraphale raised his hands to fend him off, so Crowley stayed where he was. 

"Oh, no-" Aziraphale said, shaking his head. "No, no-"

Well, that was a touch too clear really. "Okay," Crowley agreed reluctantly, "but know that I want to."

Aziraphale shook his head quickly, his hair bouncing with it. His back hit the bookshelf, making it sway dangerously for a moment. "I don't believe you. I don't believe you," Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley almost smiled at the sight, the distress in Aziraphale now was so familiar. Even the begging a minute ago reminded Crowley of his own desperation in the last week. It was awful to bear witness to, but at least he had some idea how to help. He was quite sure a kiss would knock him out of any spiralling panic.

He had to be kind about it. Trustworthy and calm, as Aziraphale felt the situation now was neither.

Aziraphale wanted to kiss him and wasn't sure it was allowed. He didn't know if the desire was allowed, let alone the act. And he'd already acted, the brave thing. 

He didn't know yet because he hadn't been listening. So Crowley took it slowly, to make sure he was heard and understood.

"You're like me," Crowley said. 

One of Aziraphale's hands went to his own face, trembling and touching his lips. "What?" he breathed 

"You're terrified." Crowley stood for a moment, waiting and letting the air calm a little. 

"I won't do anything you don't want, angel," Crowley promised, "but I want to kiss you."

Aziraphale's hands dropped. "I don't believe you," he whimpered.

Crowley sighed sharply. "Tcha, why not?"

"You-" Aziraphale looked at him then looked away. Crowley waited. Heavy seconds passed.

His patience paid off as Aziraphale took a steadying breath and said, "You give me things."

"I give you things?" Crowley repeated.

"This is just another thing," Aziraphale whispered. 

"Kissing? That's not-" Crowley gave it up and came closer. He stood to Aziraphale's side, giving him a clear exit so he wouldn't feel trapped, and laid a hand on Aziraphale's forearm. His skin quivered under Crowley's hand, he had been holding too tightly onto the bookshelf for too long and his muscles were shaking from the exertion.

"Do you want to?" Aziraphale asked, meeting his gaze squarely for once. "Or is it a habit to agree when I ask?"

"This is such a surreal conversation, angel," Crowley said. Aziraphale choked on a weak laugh.

"Aziraphale, of course I give you things. And in a way I suppose a kiss is just another thing I want to give you."

Crowley swallowed, then took a deep breath. He never would have thought he would say it all first. If at all. Aziraphale had been trying, maybe, but tripping over it. Hopefully. And Crowley was sure of a positive reception, which was simply miraculous. Perhaps not reciprocation, but a positive reception felt reliable.

"I do- I give because, well." Crowley swallowed again. Aziraphale faced him, his attention focused and Crowley got briefly lost in his eyes before he came back to it. 

"I'll just get to the point, shall I?" Crowley half-joked.

Aziraphale cracked another smile and nodded. 

"I love you," Crowley said. 

Aziraphale's eyes widened, but otherwise he stayed still.

"That's- that's where-" Crowley stammered. "Start there, that's- I'm in love with you. Start with that and you'll figure me out right."

Aziraphale's eyes dragged down Crowley's face, his stare so heavy Crowley could feel it. 

"You do?" Aziraphale breathed.

Crowley nodded. "Yes- yeah, of course, angel. Absolutely."

Aziraphale turned and faced the expanse of the shop, his eyes glassy. "Golly," he said. 

"See, that's why-" Crowley said hurriedly, then thought better of it. But Aziraphale looked at him and he thought better of thinking better and finished his thought. "You don't have to change to match me, I don't want you rushing, nothing like that. I'm already- we are- I'm in, you know. I'm into you. As you are, I guess."

"Crowley," Aziraphale sighed.

Crowley shrugged and looked at his feet. "Don't want you changing, really. I mean, I've liked all the changes so far, but only if it's- you get what I mean."

"I do, dear boy."

"Christ, I need a coffee. D'you need a minute? You could do with a minute and I need a coffee." Crowley turned and beelined for the kitchen, bustling as loudly as he could manage without it seeming comical. 

He moved fast, trying not to think too much about the risk he'd taken. It could go badly. If Aziraphale had meant it physically, as a misguided fondness, not love, it would go badly. 

But, no matter how miserable a scenario Crowley's mind came up with, and it presented a few being very practiced at this work, he did not panic. He felt sure that Aziraphale would not leave. And he knew that even if he were not reciprocated in full, there was something on the other side. Something that wanted more. They would find a middle ground.

He had the peculator on the stove and was watching it intently when footsteps sounded behind him. He was halfway through turning to greet Aziraphale when a hand landed on his hip and pushed him around. The bench dug into his back but he couldn't care because an instant after his eyes met Aziraphale's he was kissed. 

Crowley caught on quicker this time and within a moment kissed back, pulling Aziraphale close by his vest and moving in easy synchronism with Aziraphale's lips. 

Aziraphale made a high pitched noise in the back of his throat and pulled away. "You're sure?" he asked.

"Yes." Crowley kissed him again, and delighted that he could. 

"Sure you're sure?" Aziraphale muttered, the words muffled by their kiss.

"Yes," Crowley said forcefully. He pecked Aziraphale's lips lightly, then rested his hands on Aziraphale's lapel. "You're in charge of the pace, though."

"That's hardly fair."

Crowley shook his head. "I want it all. No hold barred. Bars held? Anyway. You were just saying the speed of things can, you know, hoot 'n nanny you."

"Nanny?"

"Isn't that it?"

"I'm not sure."

"Well, I say it is. And my point stands, you-"

"Oh!" Aziraphale interrupted at a shout. "Good grief!"

"What?" Crowley asked.

Aziraphale waved his hands and shushed Crowley loudly. 

"Aziraphale-"

"Shut up," Aziraphale said, almost absently. He glanced to the side and put his hands to his mouth, his words muffled by his fingers. "I didn't- oh, good grief."

"What are you-"

Aziraphale met Crowley's eyes. "I love you too."

Crowley felt a few strings of control snap in him. His legs turned to jelly. He held himself up by his grip on the kitchen counter and felt the stupidest smile creep across his face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you go!!!! They're on the same page at last <3


End file.
